


Where Demons Fear To Tread

by GoWithTheFlo20



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Always Female Harry Potter, And is a bit of a pretentious prick, Auror Harry Potter, Autism Spectrum, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Cat and Mouse, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Hannibal AU, Harry just wants to lay down in a dark room and sleep, Investigations, M/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Mind Manipulation, No Beta, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Tom Riddle, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Psychiatrist Tom Riddle, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Serial Killer Tom Riddle, Serial Killers, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Everything, Tom Riddle has high class tastes, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoWithTheFlo20/pseuds/GoWithTheFlo20
Summary: Auror Hemlock Potter sees things other's can't. Perhaps it was her Peverell blood. Perhaps it was because she witnessed the death of her mother. Perhaps she was simply as insane as the killers she tracked. Or, quite possibly, it was all of the above. When eight young girls go missing from Hogwarts, it's up to Hemlock to find the killer hacking his way through gifted muggleborns. Yet, the closer she gets to unmasking the killer, the more she loses herself to the game of cat and mouse. When the lines begin to blur between hunter and prey, Hemlock will need all the help she can get, even if that help comes from the enigmatic psychiatrist Tom Riddle.OrThe Hannibal AU no one asked for.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 136





	1. Way Down We Go

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is canon based. It takes place in the Harry Potter universe with all noticeable characters present, but events, characters attributes such as ages, and backstories are liable to change. This fic is also heavily inspired by the show, Hannibal, though no characters from this fandom will make an appearance (hence why it's not a crossover). So, think of this as a Harry Potter Hannibal AU, and buckle up for all the mind twisting, gory fun!

**Prologue: Way Down We Go.**

* * *

_Hemlock Potter's P.O.V_

The troubled woman sat in the chair, stiff backed, fingers biting into leather, gaze far-flung and taut. A light from outside the window opposite her pilfered into the room, slinking, skulking, sloping over skin, lighting up eyes the colour of snake scales and the highlands of Scotland in spring.

She couldn't hear much. Noise was dulled here, as if she was sinking underwater. Down, down, down, down, until, right there, a raw hum, a throbbing, the beat of her heart echoing in her ear. And she stared, and she sank, and she sank, and she stared.

Sprays and splashes of blood drenched a wall near the blood-soaked carpet of the living room. Through the window, lit with Lumos, she watched a dozen Aurors section off the house like ants protecting the hill. One scanned the very room she sat in, the flash of his enchanted camera, much like her schoolmate had once used, matching the thumping in her ear. Another two levitated the mutilated carcasses, swathed in stasis charms, out into the hallway, through the front door, off to be poked and prodded and pricked in the mortuary of Saint Mungo's.

Anise and Alder Mulciber.

Forty-eight and fifty-one respectively.

Husband and wife.

Cousins too.

This was a tableau of horrific violence. Gruesome carnage. Terrible brutality. And it was here Hemlock Potter, barely nineteen, rigid with fingers ripping into leather, sat amongst ghosts. The last flash of the enchanted camera, the hasty steps of a swift retreat, and finally she was alone.

Alone and sinking.

Hemlock seized a protracted breath. Her chest rising and falling with the soporific virtues of a lullaby. The home was quiet now. Calm apart from the grind of her heart and the rhythmic breath catching in frail rib cage. In, out, batter, beat, and sluggishly, her eyes slid shut.

A burst of green, rancid and fetid, on the back of eyelid. The wail of a woman's dying scream. Hollow.

Hemlock's eyes opened.

She was no longer in the house, the house now clean and lively, speckled with light that late November night. The street was empty too, most at home, gobbling up tea and warmth alike after busy days at the Ministry. Hemlock is across this meandering street, standing next to a blackberry bush, huddled in leaf and twig. The tart scent tickled her noise, hid the stench of herself, masking, cloaking.

She stayed there, shielded by shadow and gloom, and watched. Night was falling. The perfect time. She glanced up through the thicket. The sky was clear, dappled with starlight, a fat, pregnant moon. Her gaze slipped back to the house of Anise and Alder across from her. They haven't shut their curtains, don't even order their countless house elves to do so.

It's almost arrogant. The confidence it _won't_ be them. But it is, _it is,_ and Hemlock watches, waits, slobbering. The moon is out, and night was falling, and Anise and Alder will die by dawn. She could see Anise now, by the window, in her merry pink robes, hair prim and coiled, oiled with… A sniff, lavender.

Angry.

It makes her angry. It shouldn't be lavender. Anise never uses lavender. She always uses rose water tinted with lemon citrus. Anise has ruined everything and-

It doesn't matter. The hunt was on. The teeth are sharp. The moon was full. Hemlock watched as she was joined by her portly husband, two silhouettes back-dropped by candlelight, round and juicy like a veined gooseberry. They've just finished having their tea, Hemlock thinks. Alder kissed his cousinly wife, and there, right there, it was _time._

It's that domesticity she _hates._

Despises with everything she has.

Sheep.

Sheep in a pen playing house.

The wolf was calling, knocking, blowing down the door-

She doesn't run to the front door. Nothing so enraged or impulsive, though, what was to come would be-

Hemlock her time. Step by step, inch by inch, she slunk across the road, and the couple in the window know and see nothing. They deserve it. Hemlock knows that now. Sheep need to be culled to keep the herd healthy. It will be quiet, it will be quick, and soon, it will all be over.

It's when she gets to the door that it all goes tits up.

Laughter. She heard laughter from Anise, followed by the husky chuckle of Alder, and suddenly, so suddenly, she's livid. The door crumbles under the force of her Bombarda, a castle of cards in a hurricane. The Mulciber wards ring like a siren, informing the inhabitants of an intruder. That's their only protection, that lone ward. They have no others up and armed about their humble abode, they never thought they would need a blood splicing ward, or a stasis ward, or a-

The noise only makes her angrier.

Alder's the first to come running, skidding on the polished floor. He manages to disarm her left hand, swift with his spells from his time spent as head duellist in the defence club at Hogwarts. Rapid but rusty. He misses the signs, the wrong bracing off her feet. She was not left-handed, neither was she right.

She's ambidextrous, rare in a duellist, and with the long cloak, he couldn't see the spare wand rigid in her right hand. She raises it, and-

Alder has time to see it. He knew what was coming next. He has to. It only makes all this better. There's no fancy wand work, she doesn't give him the time to retaliate or protect himself, this isn't a duelling club anymore, this is life and death and-

The slicing hexes don't need it either. They hit their mark. Two through the neck. Powerful. Her favourite curse. She has been practicing it on rats since she was a little child, alone, isolated and-

The first severed the carotid artery. The blood sprayed up the wall in a bowing arch. She could hear it hit the plaster like rain on a tin roof. It's better for it. Bright in the pale moonlight, warm in the flickering candles. The second hits as Alder falls, precise, exact, snapping the neck vertebrae.

He's dead before he thuds to the floor.

Anise comes next. She's running, slipping and flailing in the puddle of her husband, rushing.

Screaming too.

Anise wasn't not a duellist. She only knew minimal spells. She never thought she would need to learn. Her parents, purebloods, never thought their little daughter would be-

She's a pureblood socialite, better with a glass of champagne in her hand at a ball rather than a wand in a dog fight. Hemlock took her time with this one. Let's the rabbit run. It gets the blood thumping, the meat tender, the-

The screaming annoys her eventually.

Anise was running for the floo in the dining room.

Hemlock caught up.

She always catches up.

There's only one slicing hex this time. To the back of the neck, between the C4 and C5 vertebrae. Strong, but not too strong. It breaks her neck, but misses the jugular, peppering the stone hearth of her floo in blood. She too falls, as the screaming twists to a gurgle.

Anise wasn't dead.

This wasn't a fatal wound.

It was never meant to be a fatal wound, unlike her husband.

Hemlock is a surgeon with a wand in her hand. She knows exactly where to _cut._ Or, she thinks she's a surgeon, but she's not. Not really. She's a butcher slashing chops and flanks.

Anise was paralysed. Still and motionless on the hardwood floor. It didn't mean she felt no pain. It just meant Anise couldn't do anything to stop what was coming next.

Exactly how Hemlock liked it.

A swift weave of her wand, and the ward falls to silence. Hemlock knows the spells for their wards. Of course she does. She's been watching them, waiting for months, taking her time in the blackberry bush in their garden. The fruit was sweet, but these piggy's would be sweeter…

The floo flared to life, a voice, cultured, cold, echoes into the home.

A curse breaker from the warding division of the Ministry.

"This is Dawlish, is everything alright there Mr and Mrs Mulciber? We received a report a few moments ago in the directory that your ward has been breached."

Hemlock came crashing back to herself. Sweaty, breathless, trembling like a new-born fawn. She stood from her seat; the leather clung to her clammy skin, pealing like shedding skin. She stumbled to the front door, drunken almost on her legs, lurching. She threw the front door open, keeping the handle in her hand, cool brass brushing scorching palm, grounding. The Auror on guard blinked owlishly at her.

"I need the incident report from the warding division of the Ministry."

The Auror stuttered, file already in hand, waiting, should she ask for it.

"Oh, yes. Quite right, Sir. Here is-"

As soon as the crisp folder, thin _, too thin_ , was held out, Hemlock snatched it and slammed the door in the Auror's face. She could hear him curse her from the other side.

She didn't care.

She flicked the folder open.

There it was.

Seventeenth of November, nine thirty-six pm, a false alarm.

A false alarm…

The flash of rotten green on the back of her eyelids. The wail of a woman's dying scream. Hollow.

Anise was still alive, bleeding out on the floor, unable to say a single word. Hemlock had to be quick, quick and clever and-

She'd planned for this. She'd learned all the spells for their ward, knew it better than they did, certainly she would know the warding division would get in touch, the new protocol after the calamitous case of Lily and Jam-

She made her way to the floo, one long stride over Anise, sticking close to the masonry, blending with shade. The tip of her wand is cold at her neck, digging into voice box and-

"This is Anise Mulciber."

Hemlock sounded just like her, even haughty, irritated at being interrupted so late at night. The spell worked fantastically. A creation of hers. Snatching voices as she snatches steaks and-

"Hello Mrs Mulciber. Can you confirm your security word for us, please?"

Anise, the real Anise, so silent on the floor, blinks and Hemlock stares at her with a dead gaze, watched as a tear dips from lash to skip down pallid cheekbone, plunging into ear. No help is coming this night. Anise knew that now. She knew, and she could do _nothing_.

Hemlock _likes_ that.

She likes that a whole fuckin' lot.

It get's her sweaty in another way. Frenzied. The hairs on her arm standing on end, a squirming ball of tension in the bottom of her belly, wiggling.

As with all purebloods, the password's painless to find. So proud of their ancestry, their house, everything Hemlock never had and-

"Highest amongst all."

The motto of house Mulciber.

"Thank you, Mrs Mulciber. We detected a break in your ward?"

Hemlock is getting angry again, she's always getting angry, they're wasting her precious time with Anise.

"Yes, that was me. I accidentally used the wrong spell to close up for the night and, well, I've given Alder a good ol' laugh, haven't I? He always tells me I should leave it to him."

Silence…

"Is there anyone in the house with you at this time, Mrs Mulciber?"

Hemlock's teeth clenched so hard she chipped enamel. However, when she speaks, voice warped by magic, it's easy breezy and full of sunshine. The perfect, docile voice of a housewife.

"I'm just here with my husband. Everything is fine, sir."

The voice on the other side of the floo was quicker to answer and, just like that, Anise's fate was sealed.

"Do you require any further assistance?"

Hemlock grinned, and it was mean, and cruel, and sharp.

_Fangs._

She had fangs; she could feel them nip her lip.

"No. Thank you so much for calling. Sorry about the false alarm."

The floo spluttered to an end.

Hemlock stood, one step, two steps, three steps, she was looming over Anise who, still alive, stared back, pupils blown, watery, _scared._ She's so scared, Hemlock's little lamb, but it will all be over soon.

"And this is where it get's real ugly for you, Mrs Mulciber."

Hemlock snapped back in her own body with a shudder, in the empty dining room, unsure how she got there, when she had moved, face hot, so hot, burning and-

Wet.

Wet. She was crying. Sobbing. She couldn't catch her breath and-

_Air._

She needed air.

Hemlock didn't know how she made it outside, or how she shouldered passed the Auror on guard duty, or when exactly the sour taste in her mouth and the spasms in her stomach came from the vomit she threw up on the lawn, but she does, and there was yelling, and she was still sobbing, breathless and burning and-

"Auror Potter! Where are you going! We need the-"

"A vampire! It was a vampire! He's done it before, recently free from Azkaban for good behaviour. This was just a practice run. He should be on file somewhere. Look for an ambidextrous duellist. That's him. You have until tomorrow night to catch him before he strikes again."

"But what about the-"

Hemlock only glanced back once.

"I fuckin' quit."

"You-… You can't just… You have to… But the-"

Hemlock didn't listen. She couldn't. Noise is dulled here, and she could still feel the tear of sinew and muscle between her teeth, hear the vampire's voice in her head, whispering, taunting, _taking._ She's not sinking underwater, she never was.

She was drowning in blood and ghosts and-

Hemlock Potter walked away, into the night, ambling, leaving.

She didn't look back again.

No one ran after her.

This wasn't a bloody movie.

* * *

_Five Years Later…_

Hemlock stood at the head of the hall in the Auror Training Department of the Ministry of Magic. Behind her, the images of Anise and Alder Mulciber flashed and flickered with each sweep of her wand, flipping through pain, skimming through memory, tapping through death. She was calm when she spoke, calm and collected and a little bit cold. So far removed from the nineteen-year-old girl who had fled a crime scene in tears.

"Murder is as old as our civilization. It's a brutal touchstone of humanity. The three F's and the big K. Food, fucking, fluids and killing. We've all thought about it, one time or another. In defence, for greed, in the heat of the moment. It will be your job as Aurors to understand those many faces, to know them as intimately as you do your own. So, _look_. Look closely. Look and think about killing Mrs Mulciber. Come to know the predator's face as you know your own. See what drove him to such lengths."

The hall was silent, rapt with attention. Another flick, another image. Anise smiling with her husband.

"Why did this woman here, so full of smiles and laughter and lavender, deserve it? What caught Fowley's eye?"

The sound of quills scribbling on parchment, a few in the front row, fresh faced, bushy tailed, _naive,_ tried bravely to snare her gaze. One even tried to wink, poor bastard. Hemlock didn't meet their offer. She stared ahead, straight and true as an arrow. Most of these wouldn't cut the upcoming exam.

Even less would make it past the first-year mark.

A few, too brash and ballsy, would die in the line of duty.

Even here, she was sitting with ghosts.

Teenage, brand-new from Hogwarts, ghosts who were too innocent to really know what they were getting into. _Just like she had been._ Poor bastards indeed. Or perhaps _she_ was the poor bastard. It was, after all, her job to get them ready.

The auditorium door creaked open. A man, austere, robustly built and towering, slipped through the crack and gently shut the door behind him, leaning back against the wall. His face was like marble, clean cut and keen, the surplus of gnarly knotted scars like gold veins through white snow. With one last flick of her wand, the images disappeared.

"Alright. Times up. I want a twelve-inch essay on my desk by Monday morning detailing why _you_ think Fowley targeted the Mulcibers. And I better not see any of my own report lifted and repeated back to me. Ask Diggory why that is a bad idea."

A mousy, timid little girl upfront stuttered, waving her hand in the air as if they were all still in the potions classroom of Hogwarts. _Six months_. She would last six months as an Auror, Hemlock knew.

She'd either quit, or she was going to get killed, not the type to be brave enough to fire a spell first. They'd catch her unaware, as she asked them nicely to put the galleons back and-

"Diggory was kicked off the program last year."

For the first, and only time, Hemlock met her hazel eye, brow cocked.

"Exactly. Now, get out."

A flood of movement took place as the pupils scurried to put away parchment and textbooks in satchels, swamping from the room in a river of chittering chatter. Hemlock Potter didn't notice the few smitten glances thrown her way, but the man at the door did, smirking. Only when they were completely alone in the dimly lit lecture hall did the sombre scarred man leave his perch by the door, sauntering closer, sandy, unkempt hair glittering.

"Miss Potter."

It wasn't a question. He knew who she was. Most in the Auror department, especially those in the EVU: extreme violence unit, did. She blindly turned to pluck up her glasses from her desk, thin metal, rounded frames familiar in her hand. Welcome. Distracting. She balanced them on her nose, halfway down, _just so_ , so the frames blocked his eyes from sight as he came to a stop before her.

She couldn't stand eye contact.

"I'm head Auror Remus Lupin. I lead the behavioural division in the EVU."

Hemlock crossed her arms over her chest.

"We've met."

She can see the slight curl of his lip, a loop, a snarl on any other man, a malformed smile on this one. Idly, she wondered if he saw a ghost in her too, as she saw ghosts everywhere.

"Yes. We had the disagreement over the age of hire in the Auror department."

Disagreement was putting it _lightly_. Lupin had wanted to keep it the same, sixteen for training, eighteen for fieldwork. Too young. Too innocent. They didn't understand-

She'd threatened to burn his office down in a fit of rage after his file to keep the age of hire won out in the Wizengamot ballot, Hemlock's request to rise being thrown out without a glimpse.

Yet…

Neither she nor he broach the other time. The time of newly formed families, happy and cheery, with a new-born daughter, Lupin the school friend of her proud Auror father. A time so long ago, forgotten, buried when they lowered Lily and James Potter into their graves.

They had so many friends, her parents. Friends just like the man before them. Friends who, once they left that rainy funeral, never came back to see the little orphan girl ditched on the doorstep of her aunt and uncle. She wasn't bitter. Sour, yes, sour in a way one never forgot, and not really forgave, but never begrudge.

Sometimes, she wished she had the chance to walk away and never look back too.

Perhaps he had focused, as any Auror would, on tracking down their killer, ignoring the orphan left behind, blinded by vengeance, thirsting for justice. It had all been hopeless. Her parents murderer was never found, and by the time anybody thought to look back for her, she was already gone, taken in by her aunt and uncle. Perhaps the killer was dead now too. Dead and forgotten.

"I see you've hitched your Griffin to a teaching post. I can't say I'm not surprised. From what I understand, you've been known to be… Antisocial."

Hemlock did chuckle at that, dry and wry like the crunch of autumn leaves under boot. She had been called worse.

"If you think teaching is about being social, you're deeply mistaken. I talk. They listen. Or don't and fail."

_And get fuckin' killed._

She didn't say that. She didn't have to. Just as she didn't have to see Lupin's eye to know it was amber, clever and biting, a man who already knows that all too well.

"Where do you fall on the spectrum?"

His voice is soothing, Hemlock thinks. Gentle in a bestial way, with the rhythm and syntax of a rolling purr.

"My _Griffin_ , as you politely put it, is tethered closer to Autism than sociopathy. So says the preliminary psychiatric report the Ministry made me sit."

Lupin knows this. As the department knows this. As every fucker knows this. Lupin wasn't the type of man to come strolling into her lecture hall _without_ reading every scrap of information recorded in her file. Forearmed is forewarned, they say, and, funnily, when handling an open flame like Hemlock, people needed all the protection they could get their grabby hands on. His worn shoe scuffled on the floor, a breeze of rubber on granite. He was uncomfortable. Whatever came next wasn't going to be pretty.

"But you _can_ empathize with sociopaths, narcissists and psychopaths."

Hemlock shrugged.

"I can empathize with anybody. Less to do with personality disorders than an… enthusiastic imagination and a thorough read of the evidence at hand. Everybody can, if they bothered to s _ee."_

Lupin did smile then, full of sharp teeth and intense lines.

"Can I burrow that _enthusiastic_ imagination?"

* * *

Lupin talked lowly on their way up the Ministry, floor by floor, to the highest offices up top, where the heads of departments sat on thrones, glowering over the masses of faithful workers.

"Over the last eight months eight girls have been abducted from their House dormitories at Hogwarts, one for each month."

Hemlock waited until their company filed out the lift to answer, hordes tapering the higher they got.

"At last count it was seven. When did you mark the eighth?"

A cutting glance, fast, fleeting.

"About three minutes before I walked into your lecture hall."

Hemlock skimmed her teeth with her tongue, a hammering beginning to strike at her temple. Merlin, not another headache.

"Abductions? By your selective word choice, I'm guessing you've discovered no bodies."

From the corner of her eye, as they hit the final floor before their stop, she saw Lupin shake his head, sandy curls whipping tired skin.

"Absolutely nothing. No signs of a struggle. No broken wards. No bodies. No body _parts._ Nothing that can come out of a body. Not even a trace of magic. They go to bed, their housemates see them, say goodnight, and by morning they're gone. Nothing but crumpled sheets left behind."

Lupin dipped out the lift as it chimed for the final time. Hemlock stalled.

"Then those girls weren't taken from where you think they were."

Lupin frowned at her as she rolled past.

"Then where _were_ they taken from?"

His office wasn't hard to find. The last in a long line of perfunctory, uniform doors. He even had a little placard, shiny and bronze. Her hand dithered on the door handle. Where? Not in their own bed. Not Hogsmeade either… Close, but not too close. Somewhere dark, where secret things bloomed and-

Hemlock shook her head. A prickle of heat flushed her cheeks. If the circumstances weren't so dire, Hogwarts had, after all, been violated by some unknown assailant, eight girls were missing, Hemlock with her headaches would turn around and march away.

She'd promised herself she would never do… _this_ again.

Never lose so much of herself and-

The fact of the matter was eight girls had gone missing in as many months. One or two could be brushed off as teenage runaways. As they _had_ been. Number four began the investigation. By the sixth, Hogwarts was threatening closure, only saved by the fact it was only muggleborns going missing, but now, at number eight, even the bigoted Governors who couldn't give two shits about muggleborns would start to lose face.

Nonchalantly, as if she could remotely be anything nonchalant, Hemlock shrugged.

She almost felt normal.

_Almost._

"I don't know yet."

She didn't wait to be invited in, as she turned the handle and entered the office. It was roomy and airy, nothing like her cramped teaching quarters, and a complete mess. Littered with papers, files, one wall holding an inflated map of Hogwarts, seven dots for seven missing girls, charmed photo's staring back, smiling, waving, merry and alive.

Hemlock froze in the middle of the chamber, observing. The tickle at her temple bowed to a beating drum. Lupin spoke up from her back, he too looking at the mass of faces who, unlike these moving images, were likely dead and brutalized in a ditch somewhere.

"They were all abducted on a Hogsmeade Friday, so they weren't reported missing by their housemates until classes on a Monday. However the killer's getting in and out of Hogwarts wards, and moving unseen, he needs the weekend to do so, and the bustle of a Hogsmeade trip to cover his tracks."

Lupin slunk passed her, prowling, straight to his desk to pick up a sheet of parchment. He tacked it onto the wall with a sticking charm, right by Gryffindor tower. The eighth girl smiled back, twirling in her Yule ball dress.

She twirled through Hemlock's mind too. Dancing. Spinning. _Sinking._

"Number eight?"

Lupin nodded as he took a step back to regard the wall.

"Emily Corringham. Muggleborn. Top of her class in Divination and Astrology. A bright young girl who had a brighter future. She vanished Friday, after she complained of a headache and retired from Gryffindor's common room to get an early night sleep. She was typically an early bird, her housemates said, so when they awoke and saw her bed empty, they thought she was already in the library studying. More Ravenclaw than Gryffindor, they joked. They only began to worry on the Sunday, when they noticed she had missed dinner two days in a row. When she failed to meet her boyfriend that night for their scheduled date at the Black Lake, he came to McGonagall and informed the head of house about her disappearance. He thought she might have been called home to visit her parents and forgot to tell him…"

The clock on the wall ticked.

"The first seven are dead."

It was a cold thing to say, taciturn and detached and, maybe, slightly cruel. Yet, it was the truth. Seven girls dead. The killer wouldn't take an eighth if he had seven at home to play with. The first had been dead for as long as the second was taken. The third the same, and so on. One after the other after the other. Falling like dominoes.

But why?

What was it the killer wanted?

What was he _seeing_ when he tagged these girls for hunting?

Lupin concurred, tight lipped, polite enough not to, unlike Hemlock, verbally denounce any hope to this sea of grinning muggleborns.

"We've turned our focus on Emily."

Hemlock crept closer to the map, searching, one by aching one, each photo.

"Without my glasses, I might mistake these for the same person. Muggleborn. Intelligent. Medium height, five-five to five-nine. Brown eyes. Brown hair. Pale, wind chaffed skin. Athletic build."

Anew, Lupin hummed his agreement.

"Roughly the same age, years five and six. Same height, same weight, same cookie cutter home. Two parents, both working, middle class. What is it about all these girls that's enticing the killer?"

Hemlock tutted, head tilting, thumbing the edge of a photo, a girl in a quidditch robe, seeker for Hufflepuff.

"Not all. _One._ He's a dragon stockpiling his gold. No matter how shiny the next gem is, how glittering silver can capture moonlight, he doesn't care. He only wants _gold_ … His golden egg. Hidden here, in this stash, is his one true victim. The golden egg."

Lupin sidled up to her.

Hemlock immediately pulled away.

"So, this is the aftermath? Or is he building up to the grand finale?"

She shook her head.

"These girls aren't bookends, Lupin. Each one _means…_ Something. My guess? She won't be the first and she won't be the last. He'll want to hide his golden egg in the waters of the banal, to bury how… _Special_ she is. Because if he sees it, everyone else must do too. That's what I would do. Wouldn't you?"

Another shuffle of shoe sole. He was uncomfortable again. For a sick moment, that was exactly what Hemlock wanted him to be. Uneasy and achy, just as she was. She bloody needed a pain potion for the migraine flowering at the side of her skull. And, while she was at it, a bottle of Ogden's for her foul temper.

"I'd like you to get closer to this. I think-"

She didn't let him finish.

"You have Malfoy in Wiltshire and Longbottom down a floor. They do the same thing I do."

He chuckled at her.

"That's not really true, now, is it? You have a _specific_ way of thinking."

No.

_No._

"Nothing specific or special about it. I see, I connect, and I conclude. A pixie can do the same, given the training. Get Malfoy or Longbottom."

Lupin was quick to retort, sending his riposte soaring at her as speedy as a snitch.

"You make jumps you don't explain. You see things no evidence could match. You-"

"The evidence explains all."

Silence. Lengthy. Tight. When Lupin eventually countered her, it was through gritted teeth. Grieved.

"Then, Miss Potter, help me find _some_ evidence."

She didn't need as much time to deliberate her next words as he had.

"No."

And that was that. No more, nothing left, riverbanks dry and cracked. Scorched earth beneath bleeding feet. She turned to leave. She made it to the door, partway to freedom.

"Your father wouldn't have turned his back on innocent people who needed his help. You can't either. You don't have it in you."

Her wand was out and aimed at his throat before he could blink.

His eyes flashed amber.

"Don't you _dare_ talk to me about my father, Lupin. Not after all this time. Not you. Not _you._ "

He had no right. Never. Maybe if he would have bothered to visit once, just fuckin' once. Maybe if she had grown up with tales of her father, given by one of his dearest friends, she might be more like him. But Remus Lupin never came, especially after the arrest of her father's other friend, Sirius Black, and here she was, a resounding disappointment on all fronts.

Ah, well, would you look at that. Perhaps she _was_ bitter. Bitter and black and burning like good coffee.

Morgana, she was barely stable enough to-

Remus Lupin didn't have the right.

By the way he cowed, head and gaze dropping, he knew it too.

She held her wand straight, still, sincere. She held it for a long time. Then he looked up, met her eye again, and he-

He smiled.

Her wand dropped and she fled.

Hemlock left work early that day. She went back to her apartment on the outskirts of Diagon Alley, alone. She downed a bottle of pain relief potion followed by sleeping draught and she, as always, had nightmares till daybreak.

Maybe Remus was right.

Perhaps she was like her father.

Soured and shrivelled, but still a stag.

For, the next morning, despite it being the last thing she _should_ do, she found herself, again, outside his office. Or, reasonably probable, she was trapped in a self-destructive cycle, only happy when she was breaking.

He smiled at her as if he knew she would be back all along.

Hemlock hated him for it.

But never as much as she hated herself.


	2. Feed The Fear

_Hemlock Potter's P.O.V_

The Corringham's lived in a happy little two storey house on the fringes of Coventry. Neat, tidy, but well lived in. It was the kind of home to drink warm milk in on summer nights, by the gentle flames of the living room hearth, laughing over folly while sipping from teacups. In this home, you pulled up a chair and you simply belonged.

The paint on the walls was thick, newly coated a lively lilac, the very same hue of spring forget-me-nots in morning light, always shifting on the mood of the mother. There were grooves in the carpet, trodden in, from the rearranging of furniture, lifting and adjusting monthly, a house always in transformation, a home never quite finished.

On the settee sat Mr Corringham wringing the spindly hands in his lap, rationalizing away with that fever that could only come from the devotedly blind. Mrs Corringham was beside him, locked down and out, a whole sea away in her mind, almost resigned. She refused to look in any direction that would allow her a glimpse of Mr Corringham.

Their marriage would be over in seven months, Hemlock thought.

Three, if Mrs Corringham kept fiddling with her wedding ring as she was, mindlessly, twisting, rolling, readying to take it off and hurl as far away from herself as possible.

"Emily could have gone off by herself. She's a very independent girl, my Em. She didn't like the dorms in Hogwarts. She always wrote home about them. No privacy. Too loud. Maybe… Maybe this whole magic business got too much for her. Maybe she… Maybe she… Left and she's in Scotland. She liked nature. She could be visiting the Highlands. Have you checked the Highlands? You can do that, can't you? With your… Your _magic_. You can check the Highlands and find my Em."

Lupin sat opposite the married-couple-who-wouldn't-be-married-for-much-longer. He was everything he should be here, kind and nice and thoughtful, graciously drinking from the kitten teacup Mr Corringham had handed him as soon as he sloped through the door.

Decidedly everything Hemlock _wasn't_.

Hemlock stuck to the wall, separated and removed from the homely scene. Circling like a shark watching a shoal of fish, just waiting for that deviation, a slip, the drop of blood in the ocean so she could strike. Or run.

She might run.

She didn't like this cosy, rustic home. She didn't like the welcoming air. She didn't like the warm and so very ordinary ambience. It was everything she never had, and it made her skin itch like someone had plunged her into anthrax.

Hemlock shouldn't be _here._

She wasn't the type of Auror one sent to the grieving families. On the Contrary, she was the one kept away, lurking in the behind the scenes, where no one could see or hear her _._ She always said the wrong thing, came off as unfeeling, aloof, especially in a time of emotional need, and was the last thing anybody distraught needed to deal with.

And yet, here she was, thanks to Lupin dragging her here from his office this morning.

She hadn't even had a coffee yet.

Mrs Corringham cut in, voice as dead as her daughter.

"She looks just like those other girls. The ones who… The ones who…"

There was a folded Daily Prophet on the coffee table between Lupin and the couple. Muggleborn parents constantly bought the subscription to try and keep up in a world they would never fully grasp. All for the sake of their children. She would guess most of them didn't understand ninety percent of what the paper held.

Usually.

Hemlock supposed the front-page story peeking among the crease, headlining the abduction of seven girls from Hogwarts, magical photo's all lined in a pretty little row, the startling similarities between them and the Corringham's also missing daughter, and Lupin and her own appearance at their door this morn, was something they could add together and get four.

Lupin was lucky news had not leaked of the eighth, Emily, before they could visit the parents.

Merlin knew what hysterics they could have walked in on otherwise.

Morgana, Hemlock wasn't good at these… _Things_.

What was she supposed to say?

_I'm sorry your daughters dead. Oh yes, she's dead. The only reason we keep calling this a missing persons case is because one; we have no body yet, and two; the higher ups believe it will ease your panic and let you answer all our questions in a timely manner. Got to keep to the schedule, you know. Good news, you can now, as you've been thinking about, convert her old bedroom into a study. Bad news, you can now convert her old bedroom into a study because your daughter died horrifically. Every cloud, aye?_

Thankfully, small mercies and all that corny jazz, Lupin had, smartly, taken the lead in talking.

"She does fit the profile, yes."

A soft yes, to keep the hopes up but not outrightly lie. A good choice. The _only_ choice really, as Mr Corringham blinked rapidly, grasping onto that slight slither of fervent faith, voice quivering, frantically holding on.

"Could Emily still be alive?"

Lupin chose his words deliberately, picking the very best of a poor lot.

"We cannot give a definitive answer currently. However, we are doing everything we can to-"

Hemlock cut him off.

"How's the cat?"

Mrs Corringham frowned at her, gaze finally focusing on more than some distant, imaginary wall. Hemlock could feel the heat of it steal over the back of her neck, another unpleasant itch on top of numerous aches, faced away from the trio. They had a rocking chair hovering in the corner of the living room, wooden, velvet, flower embellished cushion strapped to the wicker seat. Fur, mottled brown and black, clung to the tiny golden tassels.

A favourite batting toy.

"Excuse me?"

In the depths of the house, almost as if it wanted to punctuate Hemlock's question, a cat meowed and-

A scratching noise.

Emily's familiar.

Kneazle, by the photograph on the mantle of a grinning eleven-year-old clutching at her cat for the first time.

"How is the cat? It's a kneazle, isn't it? Smart creatures. Smarter than most give them credit for. Curious too. They normally swamp new visitors, feeling out friend or foe for their owner. So, where is it now? How is the cat?"

The Corringhams didn't seem to know how to answer her questions, odd and seemingly irrelevant to the topic of the day. But it _was_ relevant, and it _was_ important. Hemlock may not be able to ease their grief or sooth their fear, but she could do one thing.

Bring their child's killer to justice.

As no one had for her parents.

That had to count for something, right?

Mr Corringham coughed into a tight fist, regaining his baring.

"I didn't notice… But, yes. Athena-… The cat, she's been upstairs all morning. I can't stop her from scratching at Emily's door. She just keeps-"

Hemlock canted her head in Lupin's general direction.

"The father and boyfriend were right. Hogwarts and O.W.L's were getting too much, so she snuck off during the Hogsmeade trip and came home to visit her parents to clear her head. Whatever her housemates saw that evening, going to bed, it _wasn't_ her. They weren't home, You both work nights, correct?"

Dazedly they nod.

Shit.

"He took her from here."

Lupin didn't hesitate to free his wand and cast a Patronus at Hemlock's declaration, already speaking as the glowing ball crooked to a proud looking wolf.

"The Corringham's house is a crime scene. I need a Response unit here immediately. Tonks, Lovegood, Thomas, and Finnigan."

The Corringhams were trying to wrap their heads around the quick flurry of action, as the Patronus bounded through the wall, carrying Lupin's orders, puffing into a wisp of quickly disseminating gleaming smoke.

"Can I see your daughter's room?"

Mrs Corringham jittered and stumbled at Hemlock's question, a spider clawing at ceramic, struggling not to be washed down the drain.

"Aurors were up there only this morning. Just six hours ago to-"

"Please."

Mr Corringham nodded.

* * *

The snap of dragon-hide gloves echoed in the narrow upstairs hallway. Along the wall, a hundred memories smiled back from lovely glass frames. Hemlock declined looking too long at any single one. Recollections were like honey, tacky and tempting and tricking.

The scales were cool and crisp on her hands, chilling, protective of most dark magic should Hemlock find some and accidentally touch. They found the kneazle skulking at the end of the murky hallway, at the very last room, prowling, circling, scratching at door, eager to get inside.

_Desperate._

Hemlock prevented Mr Corringham from reaching for the door handle by jutting out her arm, blockading, never touching, just warning.

"I'll get that. Could you put your hands in your pockets and, whatever you do, don't touch anything in that room."

Even outside, Hemlock could feel the magic emanating from the closed bedroom. Eerie. Faint and faded, but gliding. Illusions floating in the air. The killer was good with magic. Good and conceited, and _bold._

There was no attempt to conceal it.

None whatsoever.

That could mean only one thing.

It wasn't here six hours ago, when the Auror's came snooping for clues. They would have felt it too. They would have searched.

_He came back._

Somewhere between now and six hours ago, perhaps while the Corringham's were downstairs or in the kitchen, the killer was right here, in their child's bedroom. Perhaps in the very room he had taken her from.

Mr Corringham shook his head, out of depth, windless with the effort to stay afloat.

"We've been in and out all day. I was only in there an hour ago to-"

Hemlock didn't tell him that, quite possibly, his dead daughter was in there, and due to the magic, an hour ago, he could have walked right on past her without batting an eye. He could have traipsed through her blood. He could have kicked her corpse. He could have-

_He could have ruined all the evidence._

Hemlock violently shook her head at the wasp of a thought.

That _wasn't_ her.

That wasn't _her._

Merlin, he was already there, in, mould, oozing, soaking in her neurons. Taking, seizing, snatching-

Hemlock gestured down to the kneazle at their feet.

"You can hold Athena, if it's easier?"

Mr Corringham picked the kneazle up as instructed, the beast of fur meowing and restless in his arms. Hemlock draped a gloved hand around the knob, and with one last settling breath, opened the bedroom door.

The light from the hallway streaked across the floor in a golden stripe, up the wall, bloating and ballooning. Her footsteps creaked on the floorboards, coming to a halt just inside the door, the wrong side of right.

Instantly, she saw the open window, sheer curtains fluttering in the breeze.

Blindly, she patted the wall beside her, found the switch, and flicked.

The bed.

A shimmer.

The disillusionment charm came silently, wandlessly.

It fell gracefully, effortlessly, like the sheer curtains fluttering and flapping.

The killer had wanted it down, or he would have chosen a tougher spell to break. He wanted the girl found, right here, right now and-

Emily laid on her bed, above the covers, clasped hands resting at her breathless bosom. She was still in her pajamas, as if she had just gone to sleep. The grey pallor of her skin and the rupture wounds ripping through her chest and dress gave the artifice of slumber away.

_Sleeping beauty torn to shreds, don't you want to get out of bed? See the morning, feel the sun, come to play and-_

Sadly, Mr Corringham only saw his baby girl, rushing forward.

"Emily?"

Mr Corringham was delighted, ecstatic, and it lasted all of two seconds before he saw what Hemlock did. Only once, even here, even now, it was all she could stomach, Hemlock touched him, arm snapping out, hand on shoulder, tight, yanking back.

"I need you to leave the room now, Mr Corringham."

Realizing the worst, Mr Corringham abruptly dropped the kneazle.

* * *

Lupin inched up to Hemlock's side, his shadow devouring her own on the floor. She wanted to laugh. Still, here, even her shadow was no longer her own. Consumed.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him reach for her shoulder, then hesitate, hand dropping back to his side lankly, swinging like a pendulum. _No touch. Fragile. Break._ She wasn't fucking glass. However, he did stand close. Too close. She could smell his cologne, something with sandalwood and musk.

It irritated her.

"We'll be just outside. Come get us when you feel ready. Take all the time you need. We'll only come in when you say so, alright?"

Hemlock could only nod.

She was itchy and tight and everything _wrong._ Empty. This was the worst part. The hollowing. Making room for the _other_ to take space, guzzle and gobble and gargle on the husk she became.

She shouldn't do this.

She always took something back with her in the end.

A shade.

A taint.

A _voice._

Despite all this, or worryingly, _because_ of it, Hemlock nodded, staring at not-slumbering-Emily on her bed. It wasn't for Lupin's sake. Nor anyone in the Ministry. Not even for the Corringhams. It was for Emily, and for Hemlock too, for the little girl locked in a cupboard who never got an answer as to how she ended up there.

Hemlock had no doubt Lupin and his team would catch the killer, unlike those on her parents case. _Eventually._ They were the best Aurors and Unspeakables in the business. But no one could do it faster than Hemlock. Perhaps, if the winds blew in their favour, she might even nab him before the ninth girl went missing. So she nods.

Only nods.

And breaks a little inside.

Hemlock couldn't hear much. Noise was dulled here, as if she was sinking underwater. Down, down, down, down, until, right there, a raw hum, a throbbing, the beat of her heart echoing in her ear. And she stared, and she sank, and she sank, and she stared.

Luna Lovegood, all blond strands, airy and dreamy, snapped a few pictures. Dean Thomas, solid, built like a beater, was scanning the window for traces of magic. Nymphadora Tonks, bright eyed with her bubblegum pink hair, was by the rug, checking for footprints and flint. Seamus Finnigan was on his belly, wand tipped with a Lumos, peering underneath the fourposter bed. The cold light caught the shadow of a cracked bed board.

One by one, they abandoned their arduous tasks, Lupin herding them out the room, despite a few protests from Finnigan and Tonks and, suddenly, Hemlock was alone.

Alone and tumbling.

* * *

The cool water lapped at the plains of her face, cooling smouldering skin. Gingerly, fingers quivering, Hemlock turned off the facet of the ensuite bathroom, bracing hands on sink, leaning heavily.

Sagging, in truth.

Shaking.

She was always shaking, blurring, melting-

Hemlock sank her hand into her jeans back pocket, plucking free a small glass vial. With a flick of her thumb, the cork popped free and bounced into the sink with a patter and a plop. She downed the lot. The taste of pale pine leaves, peppermint and something old like cobwebs haunting her tongue. The thrumming at her temple dimmed to a stinging hum.

Merlin bless whoever invented the Calming Draught.

With a wave of her hand, the bottle and cork vanished.

She could do this.

She _would_ do this.

One look.

Just _one_.

Using the tail end of her shirt, Hemlock dried off her face and squared her shoulders.

* * *

Hemlock was on the roof, hunched by Emily's window, which led to a small porch roof. She sat on the gritty shingles, hugged her knees to her chest, her damp shirt pressing cold across her belly. She breathed in the night air, cleansing the smell of Emily's death from her nose.

High up, hidden by the chimney, Hemlock could see Aurors on the lawn, healers with a small tent, treating a traumatized Mr and Mrs Corringham. She thought she could hear the former's sobs from all the way up here. She took one last breath, exhaled in a cloud, and closed eyes.

A flash of hideous green, the wail of a woman's dying scream. Hollow.

Hemlock's eyes flickered open. She was crouching outside Emily's window, merging into the shadow of the chimney. It was easy to get up here. The killer was quick and nimble and clever, and these are muggles. Poor muggles. They didn't even have a ward up.

The neighbourhood was quiet and empty at this time of night. No roving cars. No visitors or travellers. Nothing but the stars and wind.

It was just him and Emily.

He watched through the window of her bedroom, limbs and joints growing stiff and stony. It was painful, but he didn't feel it. This was not a chore. This was…

_Ecstasy._

Undulating and never ending.

Emily was sleeping soundly in her bed. He was pleased. She was peaceful and calm, and everything he ever wanted for her. Not a care in the world. Not a fear to be found. Serene in the lands of her dreams.

He reached out.

The window clicked as it cracked open.

Emily wanted him here. She _knows._ She must. Otherwise, she would have locked her window. He doesn't think, he can't, it isn't in him to think she was too muggle for wards, and too wizarding for locks.

He finds the open window, and it was all the invitation he needed.

A splinter of a feeling in his gut, a shard of malformed pity. Emily. Poor Emily. A girl trapped between worlds, one foot in one, the other balancing in the next, stretching her too thinly. You can never last in two worlds for long. It would eat you up and split you open like ripe fruit left to rot. One day, she would have to choose as his dear-

He was here to save her from that. Save her from the hatred and fear. He can understand her. Better than her muggle parents, better than her pureblood friends.

He knows.

And he'll save her, because he loved her.

That was what this was. This wasn't hatred. This wasn't anger. It _used_ to be, when he was a boy. He loved one before, a girl like her, and she scorned him, and it spoiled his insides, wrenched his organs up to bloody knots and loops. He used to despise her kind. Despise them so much. Loathed them with every fibre of his being.

Scum.

Vermin.

But then he saw _her,_ so different but achingly familiar to the one of his boyhood, the golden egg, and suddenly, he saw the wonder and beauty all over again. The veil was lifted.

Yet, he can't touch _her._

Can't…

_Can't._

So he filled the fissures with Emily's and Dawn's and Margery's. Close, but never close enough.

Never _her._

This isn't hatred.

This is a love letter.

His gaze swept the body on the bed, still sleeping, still dreaming, bending over her flesh like the lines of a love poem that wraps up a tongue in ties.

It was Emily or _her._

He chose Emily.

* * *

He loomed over a slumbering Emily Corringham. Once More, he watched her for a long while. Counted her breaths with his, a shared air and a shared heart. There were tears in his eyes, cresting on lashes until it obscured his vision.

This wasn't for pleasure.

It was a _need._

And it's sad, and it's tragic, and it _burns._

But he has to. He has to and-

It happened suddenly, on an ephemeral urge.

He bore down on Emily's chest with a knee. He was tall and heavy, though willowed with a condensed sort of strength. Bare branches in winter. Emily never stood a chance. He felt her ribs cracking below his knee, as, concurrently, his long-fingered hands, piano hands his mother would call them, were swaddled around Emily's dainty, spun glass throat.

Wringing and coiling.

It's sudden, and it's terrible, and it's violent.

And there was nothing more beautiful.

Emily startled awake, dropping from dreams into dread untold. She battled beneath him, below his deft hands and heavy knee, face swelling with pressure, capillaries in her skin wrinkling and bursting, breaking to red flecks and specks, the white of her eyes bleeding red as everything, _everything,_ inside her struggled for air.

He was crying now, openly, tears streaming down his cheeks as if his face was a map being cleaved by running rivers. Emily cries too. They both cry, and they both fight, and only one wins.

Emily tried to scream, call for help, beg for mercy, but she couldn't get so much as a wheeze out her enclosed throat, encapsulated by his hands.

He holds her life in his palms, holds it and _crushes._

With one final shove, one last heave over, the bed board beneath breaks, Emily's ribs shatter and crack, a lung is pieced and the neck snapped.

She went limp in his hold.

Emily was dead, but the work had only just begun.

He needed to take her home and-

* * *

"Are you Hemlock Potter?"

Hemlock viciously hurtled back into her body with a whirl, a wave, and a well-hidden gag. Nymphadora Tonks stood in the bedroom, opposite the bed, the door wide open, blinking at her, head cocked curiously. When Hemlock responded, it was barely a gust of wind from voice box, hoarse and husky.

"You're not supposed to be in here."

She was standing over Emily's body, Hemlock noted. Thankful she was not touching her, heaving over, baring down and-

Hemlock didn't know when she had come through the window, or how long she had been standing there, but, again, she _never_ knew.

"You wrote the bloody book on Vampiric behaviours in murder. If it wasn't for your work, so many werewolves would still be rotting in Azkaban, paying for the crimes of vampires."

Instead of leaving it at that, letting Hemlock catch her breath, gain her footing, rub away the fog still clouding her pounding head, Tonks brandished her wand, pointing to the sprawling space between them.

"I found velvet in two of the wounds… You're not a real Unspeakable, are you?"

Most wizards and witches in the EVU were Aurors _only_ on record, but Unspeakables in truth. They needed the cover for the extreme cases they faced. Hemlock hardened.

"I am an Auror. I teach at the department."

Tonks's head slanted to the other side, resembling an overgrown puppy.

"You've _never_ been an Unspeakable?"

Hemlock's eye fled to the floor.

"Strict vetting processes."

Tonks beamed at that, as bright and cheery as her hair.

"Yeah, detects instability. Are you unstable, Potter?"

Lupin chose that moment to come thundering into the room, glaring at Tonks. The woman only smiled wider, found it all the funnier. In Spite of bluntness and brashness and, plainly put, goading attitude, Hemlock found something… Refreshing about this woman.

She didn't treat Hemlock like she needed kiddy gloves.

"You're not supposed to be in here."

Lupin barked, unintentionally repeating what Hemlock had said. Or was it Hemlock who unknowingly mirrored Lupin? Heads or tails.

Tonks shrugged, with the carelessness only a Black could ever show.

"I peeped in and she wasn't here. So I thought I would get a jump start on the shitload of work we have on our hands. I found antler velvet in two of the wounds. I was looking for velvet in the other wounds when Potter came prowling through the window and just stood there… Staring."

Hemlock winced hard and hobbled back until her spine aligned with wall, shoving her hands deep into her jacket pocket. Before Lupin could say whatever was about to come babbling out his open mouth, Thomas popped his head through the door, before he too scuttled in. Now that Tonks and Lupin were in the room, it was apparently a free for all.

"Deer and elk pin their prey. They put all their weight on the antlers and try to suffocate the opposition. That's how they kill foxes and coyotes."

Lupin sighed, connecting dots.

"Emily Corringham was strangled and suffocated. The preliminary diagnosis spells show her ribs are broken."

Finnigan joined the chorus of voices, and, in the mess, Hemlock heard the _other_.

_Poor Emily. He would save her._

"So, this is some sort of animal psyche adoption? A person who acts like a deer? Perhaps an Animagus? It doesn't make sense. All the victims are female, and it's not rutting season, if that _is_ what this killer is after."

Hemlock's voice seeped with sardonic sorrow.

"The wounds are post-mortem. He killed her here, took her somewhere, and brought her back. Antler velvet is rich in nutrients. It fosters healing. It's one of the main ingredients in Skele-Gro. The killer may have put it there on purpose."

Lupin scrutinized her, and Hemlock coiled further into herself.

"You think he wanted to heal her?"

Hemlock squinted out the window. The darkening sky was overcast. It would rain later.

_Blood splattering on the wall like rain on a tin roof._

She swallowed down the bile.

"No. It's… Damage control, emotional wise. He was trying to undo as much as he could, given she was already _dead_."

Lupin scratched at his stubbled chin.

"He put her back where he found her. Where he knew someone _would_ find her."

Hemlock sighed.

"Whatever he did to the others, wherever they are… He couldn't do the same to Emily."

Lupin leapt on the hope and promise, and landed on his arse.

"Is this his golden egg?"

Hemlock shook her head.

If only anything was so easy or simple.

"This is an apology."

It snagged in her tender throat, hitching on the L, the y hanging in the air. She snatched her glasses off her nose, and scrubbed at her eyes with the heal of her palm, vigorously, until she saw white spots on the back of her eyelids and not bursting, scared eyes, feel the snap of a neck between her fingers, the crack of rib-

Her hand fell and she blearily looked at the faces around her.

None of them in focus.

"Does anyone have any pain relief potion?"


	3. To Catch a Breath.

_Hemlock Potter's P.O.V_

Hemlock rocked under the lashing water, so hot it blistered her skin a shiny pink, letting it blur her vision, wash her spotless, burn away the things she had seen. The things she had _felt._ The bathroom was full of steam, the water shrill in a way that reminded her of Petunia shouting.

_Clean_.

She needed to get clean.

The open window fluttered the shower curtain.

The forest was dark outside her shower stall, dark and dim and rolling with fog.

_It’s not real. Don’t look. Keep your gaze dead ahead, and it will fade away. Don’t look. Don’t look._

She looked, because that's what she always did.

Look into the darkness. 

She turned, slowly, fearfully, and-

There it was. The shadow lurking in the treeline.

A proud black stag made of smoke and soot.

It slunk through the fog, mist curling from nostrils, closer it crept, closer and-

The shower curtain flapped closed, and Hemlock, wet, alone, snapped back into her body.

It stung.

The sudden drop back into reality.

Her hand trembled cruelly as she reached to cut the water off, scampering out the stall, snatching at the towel waiting for her on the railing. Her bathroom was only a bathroom now, unsoiled and unblemished and sparse.

She pretended she didn't hear the clatter of hooves following her. 

* * *

Her flat was empty and dark, just how she liked it.

Hemlock tossed on the top covers of her bed, a moonlit cast tree branch stretching shadows along the far wall of her bedroom and across the ceiling.

Cracks in reality.

Cracks in the mind. 

A sleepy sigh joined her own in the silent night.

She was calm, in her bed, huddled as she was on her side, curled into something fetal, as her green eye slipped open.

The splintered shadows on the wall greeted her, like roads on a map.

She held her breath.

The sigh carried on.

_Don’t look. Don’t turn. Don’t, don’t, don’t-_

She rolled over, craning her neck to check the empty side of her bed.

She knew what she was going to see long before Emily came into vision.

Emily was as she had been in her own bed, perched on top of the covers, hands folded over her bloodstained nightie.

She’s in Hemlock’s bed.

She’s in Hemlocks thoughts.

She’s in Hemlock’s _mind._

And so is _He._

Her killer.

Hemlock can, as she always did, despite how peaceful Emily looked here, resting beside her in eternal sleep, still feel her fear, her desperation for breath as she struggled and fought and-

And Hemlock could feel how good _H_ _e_ felt, stealing that breath, enfolding, giving and taking love through his fingers, and that orgasm, bursting fourth in his groin like a hot star when the crack of ribs recoiled underneath his knee.

Against her will, Hemlock’s hand rose, stretching, reaching, and just as she was about to touch cool skin, the shadows on the wall malformed, corporeal, antlers made of shadow and smoke.

They pierced through Emily, impaling her, lifting, dragging, taking her back to the dark room in Hemlock’s mind, the dark room that was constantly developing images she would rather forget, the dark room where _He_ was waiting for her.

The shadows ate her.

Devoured her.

Emily was gone.

A shadow dipped from the wall, breaking through her dark room, wrung itself around Hemlock’s neck, burning her, branding her down to the wick, fingernails penetrating tender flesh and-

She jolted awake in her bed, alone, cold, still wrapped in her towel in only a pair of knickers and a tank top, soaking wet with perspiration, hair limp and clinging to her clammy forehead, chest heaving in futile breaths Hemlock couldn’t catch.

It was only a dream.

It was only ever a dream.

_Just_ a dream.

She wasn’t him, she didn’t feel the rush, she didn’t-

She wasn’t _him._

Shirking off her damp towel, peeling of her tank and knickers, wet and heavy like a used bathing suit, and hearing them slap onto the hardwood floor of her scant bedroom sounded like the pounding of her own heart. 

A quick cleansing spell washed away her sweat, but didn’t rinse away the nightmare.

It never did.

She glanced to the clock on her bedside table after changing the sheets, the muggle way, because it gave her something to do, something to focus on.

4 am.

She left her room. She couldn’t stomach staying there any longer. She would only wait if she stayed, wait and watch for the shadows dancing on her wall, expecting them to leave the confines of 2D life and reach for her.

Coffee.

Hemlock needed coffee.

And an obliviate.

* * *

Hemlock snatched a paper towel from the sink in the men’s bathroom of the Ministry Of Magic, dabbing away the water she had splashed her face with.

On the back of her eyelids, she saw the black stag pouncing.

She shook her head and bent back down, gargling some water before spitting it back into the sink, washing away the putrid taste of fear and excitement, and, of course, the cloying taste of nicotine from the seven smokes she had inhaled in the last hour alone.

She could still taste it.

She still felt dirty.

That feeling, she supposed, would never leave.

Once you touched evil, it touched you back.

That was a stain not easily removed, and never with something as simple as water and peroxide.

Remus Lupin, impatient from searching the Ministry Halls for Hemlock in the last hour, found her there, hunched over the sink, staring at her reflection with lilac bruises lining her tired, startling eyes. Her hair was a mess, but then again, it always was, hanging to her shoulders in frizzy, untamed coils.

She was her father’s daughter, all but the eyes.

“What are you doing in here?”

_I knew this would be the last place you, or anybody, would look for me._

Hemlock didn’t say any of that, she simply snorted and turned around, cocking back against the porcelain sink digging into her lower back.

“I rather enjoy the décor, and the odd attempt here and there to try peeing standing up.”

Remus didn’t take the bait, he took none of her shit, as he merely raised a contrary brow at her and cut the chase.

“Me too. Let’s talk.”

A Ministry worker moseyed in, some poor fellow who looked like a desk jockey from Law management, and Lupin was on them immediately, sharply pointing back to the door he came in with a sweep of his arm.

“Use the ladies room. _Now_.”

The man startled, spotted the werewolf glaring at him, and abruptly twisted and scampered off, the men’s room door clicking shut behind him.

Poor fellow, indeed.

He never stood a chance.

Neither did Hemlock, by the bite in Lupin’s voice.

She wasn’t getting out this bloody room without a conversation taking place.

_Balls._

“I know you may not like me, Hemlock. Don’t glare at me like that. I’m not inconsiderate. I suspect you hardly like _anyone_. However, I would hope you respect my judgement. Do you?”

Her jaw rolled.

Begrudging.

“Yes.”

Lupin nodded and came to a towering stand before her, hands locked in the pockets of his slacks. He tried valiantly to meet her gaze.

She didn’t let it happen.

Instead, she gazed over his shoulder, to the other mirrors lining the sinks. With her glasses off, and contacts not in, she looked to be nothing but an ink smear on silver.

She felt like that too.

A smudge some unfortunate janitor couldn’t quite scrub off.

Lupin sighed.

“We have a better chance of catching this killer if you’re entirely on your broom.”

What a polite way of telling her Lupin thought she was _un_ _stable_.

Problem was, she was sure _this_ , this inky, sleepless, coffee infused mess was the most stable she _could_ be.

“I _am_ on my broom. I just don’t know _where_ I’m flying. I don’t know this kind of psychopath. He’s not in any lecture or textbook. He’s nothing like anything I’ve come across before. I don’t even know if he _is_ a psychopath. He’s… Sensitive. Caring. He’s not emotionally shallow.”

Lupin soaked it in and churned it over slowly, methodically.

“You wouldn’t have said what he did to Emily was an… Apology if you couldn’t see him in some shape, Hemlock. So, what is he saying sorry for?”

Her finger’s clenched on the rim of the sink behind her, tingling.

Tingling like _His_ fingers would have as he wrapped them around Emily’s throat.

“There was no honour in that death. He feels bad. He feels as if he’s… Tarnished her.”

Lupin chuckled, confused. He would be. _Most_ would be. Hemlock wished she were too. If you couldn’t feel the killer, see how they _see_ , their world was an abstract mess.

“Guilt negates the psychopathic tendencies, does it not?”

She only nodded.

“Then what kind of crazy is he, Hemlock?”

The worst kind.

The crazy that was _love._

“He couldn’t show Emily he loved her. Not the way he wanted to. Something… Stopped him. Something went wrong in that room. Not Emily. Not how she fought back. He was used to that. People get shy in love, or at least he reasons. No… He couldn’t love her like he should have, and so he took her back to the one place he knew she would find that kind of love. Her home. To her family. That, Lupin, is the kind of _crazy_ we’re dealing with.”

Hemlock couldn't stand that word.

Crazy.

No one, not really, not ever, was crazy.

Reality, as with all things, was subjective.

Crazies just walked in a different world.

A world sometimes Hemlock found herself dumped in.

Anew, Lupin took it in and held it gently, trying to wrap his head around the concept.

“You think he loves these girls?”

Hemlock rubbed at the bridge of her nose.

“He loves _one_ of them. The rest are just… Mirror reflections. He can’t love that one the way he wants to, so he writes love letters with her ghosts. It’s either her or them, and he will always choose them… Until he has no other choice. So, _yes_ , he loves them, but only in fraternity to the one he feels like he can’t. His precious golden egg.”

The rebuke was quick.

“There was no sign of rape. No semen or saliva. Emily Corringham died a virgin, and her corpse kept that promise.”

And Hemlock’s rebuke came quicker.

“That’s not how he loves them. That’s… Debauched, to him. He wouldn’t disrespect them that way. He kills them quickly, with, in his mind, kindness.”

Lupin scoffed, but he couldn’t argue.

“The sensitive psychopath. He took a risk today, to tuck Emily back into bed. He’ll take a bigger risk soon.”

Not soon enough.

Not before he nabbed the ninth.

Of that, Hemlock was sure.

“He has to take the next girl soon. We’re no longer looking at one a month. He knows he’s going to get caught, especially after putting Emily back. That wasn’t part of the plan, Lupin. He knows it’s coming, and he’ll want to… _Finish_ before it comes. One way or another. Looks like his golden egg has run out of time.”

* * *

_No One's P.O.V_

Nymphadora Tonks worked in a small, enclosed, sparkling room. A sterile metal table before her, lit by the strongest of spells. The bloodstained nightie spread like an offering on an altar. In the air, through the magic radio, Queen played at an almost ear bursting tempo.

Every now and again, her head bobbed to the tune.

Deliberately, fixed over the nightie, she levitated some powder caught in the lace hem, grey, glistening.

Asphodel.

A Potion ingredient.

A _rare_ Potion ingredient.

Her grin was keen in the bright light, as her hair switched to a shockingly lurid yellow.

“Got you.”

* * *

_No One's P.O.V_

The Asphodel slid into the little vial, the pop of a cork capping its crown. A blotch of it got on his thumb, turning the skin grey, but the man paid no mind.

He was busy restocking the Potion ingredients in the bottom store cupboard of Saint Mungo’s apothecary.

The door creaked open.

A woman, heels clacking, came tumbling in, curly brown hair and firewhisky eyes bright in the candlelight.

She was the same height and weight as Emily Corringham.

And the seven girls before her.

She didn’t know that, however.

No.

Hermione Granger was blissfully unaware of the chaos coming, the newest Healer trainee of Saint Mungo’s teaching program.

She smiled as she came into the room.

Smiled right at him, the man with Asphodel on his thumb.

She waved and said hello.

She knew him.

He waved back, slow and languid.

Her would-be-killer.

* * *

_Remus Lupin's P.O.V_

Lupin strolled down the winding hall of the Auror Academy next to an impeccably dressed man, pale and beautiful in the low light.

He was a legilimency specialist.

Draco Malfoy, his name tag read.

“Hemlock likes you, as much as she _likes_ anyone. She doesn’t think you would run any mind games on her.”

Draco had grown into his pointed features that had taunted him as a child.

Yet, still, his answering smile could only ever be called spiked.

It would have cut Lupin, if he wasn’t an already hardened man. 

“Because I _won’t_. I’m as honest with her as I would be with any patient. Lying is pointless when it comes to Hemlock. She smells a fib a mile off, and an ulterior motive even further.”

The pair stalled next to the door to the office, Malfoy’s office, as Lupin took a sweeping scan of the young man.

“From what I understand, you teach the trainees with her at the Academy?”

Draco scoffed, and even that sounded graceful.

“I’ve known her longer than the Academy. We were in the same year at Hogwarts, the same House too.”

Lupin winced.

Draco grinned like an Acromantula who had the strings of its web pulled by some poor, lost soul.

“You didn’t know she was a Slytherin?”

Lupin shook his head, and now it was Draco’s turn to examine the man before him.

That was the thing with Slytherins, even years out of their Hogwarts House colours.

It was always tit for tat.

One sniff of weakness, unsure footing, and they went in for the kill.

“I have to admit, I _am_ curious. From what _I_ understand, you were close to her parents and yet…”

Draco’s pale gaze glinted like a knife flashing in the dark.

That burned.

It hurt.

Sirius used to have the same-

“You never sent a letter. Not one. Not on her House acceptance. Not on her birthdays or Yule. Not even when she graduated. None of her parents so called ‘friends’ ever reached out. That says a lot about you Gryffindors, doesn’t it. So, why?”

Why?

Because it was his fault she was an Orphan.

Because he should have been there, for James, for Lily, all those years ago when they first began being tracked by a serial killer.

He should have seen Sirius Black falling, and instead he-

Instead, he was on a mission, off in Bulgaria, and-

He should have been there.

As he should have been there throughout the years. He wrote letters. He never posted them. He planned to visit. He never went on the day. He-

Lupin saw her once.

Waiting at the train station, heading off to be a first year.

He had wanted to introduce himself. Perhaps get to know the child. But then… _Then._

He saw her and he was hit with… She looked so much like her father, and she had her mother’s eyes, and he had-

He had walked away.

Circe, he had _ran._

His greatest failure reflected back from the innocence of a child and-

_His_ fault.

He had ran away and never looked back, and he would never, _never,_ forgive himself for that.

Grief and anguish had made him a coward.

Of course, Lupin uttered none of this and swiftly diverted course.

This wasn’t a social visit.

Lupin had work to do.

“Have you spent a lot of time around Hemlock? How well do you know her as her friend?”

Draco shuffled and crammed his hands into his pockets, looking down his nose at Lupin.

“Better than _you_ , I suspect. However, that is not much in the grand scheme. You’ve met her now, haven’t you? You know what Hemlock is like. She doesn’t _do_ friends. She never has and I highly doubt she ever will.” 

Draco let that linger in the air before he carried on.

“Even in Hogwarts she was always… On the outside looking in. I think it was for the best. Even then, she had trouble with her empathy. Mordred knew what messes she saw surrounded by hormonal teenagers. And after that ordeal with Professor Quirrell… She stopped him; you know? She was the one to realize he was touching the girls. A twelve-year-old did what the other teachers and adults could never do. They owe her a bloody Order of Merlin for all the shit she put a stop to and-“

Draco swallowed deeply, collecting himself.

“We hardly got on, after she beat me to the Seeker position in Quidditch in second year. And Merlin knew how she _infuriated_ my father by always nabbing the top spot in our academic skirmishes. She stuck to herself a lot. If you wish to weasel out information on Hemlock, your best source would be Theodore Nott. They studied together in Hogwarts, sat the same Auror exams, and, I dare say, he would be the closest thing she has to a friend. I, however, have never been alone with her.”

Lupin regarded him shrewdly, picking up the things he refused to say.

Surely as Malfoy picked up on the things Lupin refused to voice. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t taken the time to write a report on Hemlock, given how you did the same to… Pansy, wasn’t it?”

Draco’s smile drained of all humour.

“Anything scholarly on Potter will _not_ be coming from me.”

Remus crossed his arms over his chest.

“Why aren’t you ever alone with her?”

Draco shook his head, exasperated, as if he was dealing with a trainee and not seasoned Unspeakable.

“Because I _have_ a curiosity. Hemlock’s mind is a fuckin’ candy-land to specialists like me. An untapped dragon horde. The things we could learn if we just-… I wouldn’t be able to help myself, and that is the _last_ thing she needs right now. I do have _some_ dignity and sympathy, Lupin.”

The barb was there, skulking, biting.

_Unlike you._

And would you look at that.

A Slytherin with a bigger heart.

_For shame._

“If Hemlock caught you peeking, she’d snatch down the shades?”

Draco sighed, obviously coming to the end of what little compassion he had for Lupin’s plight.

And he had a far share of it.

He _knew_ Hemlock.

He knew how knotted and tangled things could become around her.

“Normally, I would never do what I am about to. However, you’re as bull-headed as any other Gryffindor, and so, here’s a tip. What do you think it is that drives Hemlock to do what she does, though she, outwardly, appears to abhor it?”

Lupin frowned as he thought.

“Compassion?”

Draco sneered, and it was a sad little thing of twisted brambles.

“ _Fear._ Hemlock deals with huge amounts of fear. Her own, the victims, even in some shade, the killers. It comes with her imagination, her ability to empathize with those other’s find impossible to see. In them, as with all empathy, in some way, she finds herself reflected back, and it _terrifies_ her. And still… She will always continue to look because she thinks it’s the _right_ thing to do. The only thing bigger than her empathy, Lupin, is her martyr complex. She will continue to reconstruct and rebuild. She doesn’t need to be picked apart, Lupin. She _needs_ someone who will look into the darkness with her and hold her hand without judgement. I am not convinced this is _you_. The man who didn’t send a single letter.”

The insult was hot and heavy and achingly true.

And, with all heartbroken certainties, Lupin’s first instinct was to fight it.

“I wouldn’t put her out there if I couldn’t cover her.”

At Draco’s sardonic look, he revised his statement.

“If I couldn’t cover her _eighty_ percent.”

Malfoy shook his head.

“I wouldn’t put her out there at _all_. None of you see, do you? None of you, just as Albus did, realize the price she has to pay for her gift. Or worse, you _do_ bloody see and none of you care. To reconstruct and rebuild, she has to first tear herself apart limb by limb, and each time, a little of her is… Lost. Each time she... She brings _something_ back. One day, a stranger is going to stand before you, a Frankenstein stranger you can't stand to look at, and it’s on your own head.”

Lupin heckled.

“Well, she _is_ out there. And we _all_ need her out there. No one can do what she does, and if we aren’t there, she would go running headfirst into it herself. _Alone._ I wouldn’t be doing this if I had any other choice. I just need you to make sure she isn’t _left_ out there.”

There was a pompous snarl to Malfoy’s mouth.

“Trust me on this, Lupin. You really do not wish for me to be the one commenting on this in _any_ official compacity. It will not end well for you.”

Lupin heaved a frustrated breath through is flared nostrils, held it deep in his lungs until it burned.

It almost burned as must as what Malfoy had told him.

_Almost._

Silence settled around them outside the office for a long while before, softly, Malfoy broke it.

“However… I may know of someone. Best in the field. No one better, even myself. He was my legilimency Professor back in training. I’ll talk to him, see if he will… Consider meeting Hemlock. Don’t hold out hope. He’s as picky with his patients as Hemlock is with her friends. Yet, you have to promise me something, Lupin. Don’t let her get too close. Don't let her bring something back that she can't shake off.”

There was iron speared through Lupin’s voice.

Thick and inexorable, and uniquely brittle.

“She won’t get too close. I can promise you that.”

* * *

_Hemlock Potter's P.O.V_

Tonks and Finnigan hovered over the examination table of the mortuary in the Auror department, promptly joined by Thomas who gestured to the body laying prone on top.

Emily Corringham looked peaceful here too.

“There’s nothing on the body. However, we did get a hand spread off her neck. By size and shape, it was a robust assailant. A right tall bastard.”

Tonks viewed the body with a astute eye.

“Did you lift any powdered Asphodel?”

It was Finnigan who responded.

“None. The body was… Meticulously prepared. There isn’t any blood underneath her fingernails. She didn’t even get to scratch him.”

Tonks hummed.

“A smear on a nightie is all we’ve got then.”

She grinned over to the fourth and final inhabitant of the close quarter room, standing vigil in the corner.

Separated off into her own little invisible box. 

Hemlock didn’t reply, and neither did she find anything to smile about.

She wasn’t even looking at them, focused on the body, gaze a little far away, as absent as her voice, as if she were going through the motions of a play learned by heart.

“We should first look at apothecaries. Perhaps Potioniers. Healers at Saint Mungo’s, those who deal with restocking their stores of ingredients.”

Thomas leant over the body, pointing out the cleaned wounds with the tip of his wand.

“The injuries to the chest and abdomen were inflicted post-mortem, as Hemlock said. Emily wasn’t gored. She died of suffocation and trauma to her rib cage and neck. Very… Muggle. If I had to give a guess, I would say it was deer antlers.”

Hemlock knew that already.

She’d dreamt it that morning.

Yet, what did that mean?

An insult?

Killing a Muggleborn the muggle way to prove how unworthy they were of their magic?

No.

Magic, in some form or other, always distorted the body. Left a trace, scared something, _took_ something.

_He_ wanted the victim to be as pure and… Whole as possible.

Once more, Hemlock’s disconnected voice drifted along the frigid chamber.

“She was mounted on them like meat hooks. She may have been bled too.”

Deer’s and stags…

Her family animal.

Her father’s Animagus.

Her own Patronus.

Nevertheless, before she could look too much into that unsettling titbit, an unseen connection not explored, Finnigan stopped his poking around in the abdominal wound, misshapen by an antler.

“Her liver was removed. He took it out and… And… He bloody put it back in. See?”

Hemlock stayed outside the circle, even as other’s dipped in to see the reattached liver. Thomas’s voice was incredulous.

“Why take it out in the first place if he was going to shove it right back in? Look… Stitches. Muggle, again. If he used magic, it would have been harder to find-“

Thomas’s voice bled away as Emily had been bled. In a gurgle and a trickle, until nothing but a pale husk remained. Background noise. Hemlock’s face went slack as the neurons fired in all directions, linking, connecting, joining.

Tonks was the only one to notice, as she shot a look at the younger woman.

Hemlock flinched.

“Something’s wrong with the _meat_.” 

Finnigan’s gaze, wide eyed, rounded on Hemlock.

“She had dragon pox. She was being treated at Saint Mungo’s. Her parents wanted to keep it hushed because of the remaining stigma of those infected.”

Saint Mungo’s.

That’s where he was finding his victims.

That was where he was finding his… Meals.

Merlin, Hemlock knew all along.

The dream.

The way the shadows had consumed Emily’s ghost.

She did say meat hooks, had she not?

Bled as a calf was wrung for steak.

She laughed then. Laughter that eerily died in her throat like a howl.

“He’s eating them.”

What better way to love someone than ensure they became a part of you? Could never leave you? Parts of them digested in a gut, transferred to fat and energy that mixed with your own?

He was fuckin’ eating them.

Hemlock could taste copper on her tongue. 

* * *

_No One's P.O.V_

The trilling strains of Goldberg Variations by Bach glided in the office, gold dust in the air. A man sat at his immense desk, beside the beautiful black marbled fireplace, scratching away at parchment with a raven quill.

He appeared to be in his early thirties, but he was pushing into his late forties, early fifties in truth. Graced with the gift of slower aging as their kind was. He was a tall man, naturally a head above others. Lithe too.

Broad shouldered and long limbed, he, like his fireplace, was cut from marble. There was something wicked in the way he moved, a drive and pace too prowling, too easy, a glide some would call it, effortless others, that was at odds with his crisp Savile Row costume.

Predators were never meant to look so offhand and tranquil.

He was a man, much like the Variations playing, of severe angles and quavers. Aristocratic down to his perfectly lined teeth behind cupids bowed lips, blue eyes cold and luminous, the shade that could only be matched by the underbelly of glaciers in the arctic sea. Yet, they were not dead eyes. Far from it.

There was fire in the ice if you could imagine such a thing. Fervour rapt in a snowstorm. The hottest fires, the saying went, always burned blue.

His quill stalled as the hearth activated, flashing green on an incoming floo.

“Come through.”

If his eyes were cold, his voice was frostbitten.

Draco Malfoy came through the fire.

“Dr Riddle, if I may have a moment of your time?”

Doctor Tom Riddle smiled politely, calmly placing his quill down beside his parchment to gesture for the man to take a seat before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER: Tom Riddle enters stage right, and everything goes to hell.


End file.
